cower and præy

[backslash]

((Salem Fox continued from The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters))

It was already dark when Salem crept into the church, footsteps light as a cat. He crawled through low to the ground, almost on all fours at points, fully down at others. It took a bit of work to shove the toppled wardrobe over just enough to open up a space for him to wiggle through, but he managed it, and then he was down in the damp, cold dark.

Crouching halfway down the cellar steps, he clicked his flashlight on and aimed it into the inky darkness below.

A waxy-faced mannequin, sprawled out like Angelo was going for the whole crucified-hero vibe, greeted him. His one visible eye caught the flashlight beam like a cloudy marble.

Salem flicked the light back off.

Eventually he descended.

"Hey, buddy," he whispered. "You're not looking so hot."

There was no response from the mannequin.

"I know we didn't ever talk much - you were always just kind of a lot, you know? - but it's good to see you, man."

Something skittered a few feet away. Salem fell silent again until it did too.

"Did it hurt a lot?"

No answer.

"Come on dude, throw me a bone here." When he breathed in, it seemed that the reek of fresh decay and old rat droppings had gotten a little stronger.

"Yeah, no, you're right. It never would have worked out. You're a real firecracker, and I'm more of an easygoing guy, you know? Anyway, I don't date guys shorter than me."

Outside, the wind blew, and the church overhead creaked and settled. Salem held his breath and imagined the whole building crumbling and tumbling down. He'd stay here for days without anyone finding him, if that happened. Maybe not even the cameras would be able to get through. He had enough food and water to last for at least a week. (More if he wanted to break it down Donner Party style, but the water would always be the most pressing issue.)

"Something I wish I'd asked you before you got shitty at having conversations."

Silence, like a breath held in anticipation of the question.

"How do you prove you're alive?"

Whose flesh is your flesh?

When you look in the mirror, whose face do you see?

"I guess you never had to think about stuff like that. Seemed like you had it down. Guess that's probably nice."

...

"Or maybe not, if you don't even ever have to wonder about it."

"Anyway. Give me a second to slip into something more comfortable, and then I'll get out of your hair."

Salem set his bag down on the cellar floor, and shimmied out of his jacket and then peeled off the thermal shirt he was wearing. It was sticky to the touch where the ice cream had soaked in, and it made a faintly wet-sounding slap when he tossed it on the ground. He made face blindly in its direction.

"Cool, thanks for watching my stuff. Oh yeah- can I borrow this?"

No answer.

"Thanks, dude. You're the best." Salem lifted the khanda with a grunt, a little surprised at how heavy it was. It was cold to the touch, and he decided to wrap it in the discarded sweater to prevent either the cold or the edge from causing an issue when he climbed back out of the cellar.

"Be seeing you, friendo."

And he scuttled away as quietly as he'd come.

((Salem Fox continued in Disavowed Anger In The Face Of Evil))